i wonder if grown people who have all their growing done

remember, as they sit at ease, that growing isn't fun.

one's legs and arms have separate aches, one's head feels half asleep,

but every day, let come what may, at school one has to keep.

and there the teachers never say, "just study as you please,"

when shooting pains are flying round about a fellow's knees.

reports say, "tommy's progress is not what is desired,"

and fathers call you lazy when you're only deadly tired.

you have to learn the things you hate; it almost makes you sick,

there's such a lot of grammar, there's so much arithmetic,

the maps and boundaries to draw, the text to get by heart,

and all the while those growing pains to pull your joints apart!

now skating, and snowballing, and managing a wheel,

are very, very different things; though tired you may feel,

you manage not to mind it; the time goes rushing so

that you are interested and forget you have to grow.

dear mothers and grandmothers, they seem to understand;

all boys should always meet them, bowing deeply, cap in hand,

for they have sense, and don't expect what fellows cannot do,

though other people laugh and say, it's all the point of view.

but, oh! if grown-up gentlemen with growing safely done,

would just remember now and then that growing isn't fun,

perhaps they'd make it easier for boys who'd like to be

a trifle brighter, if they could, but are growing just like me.

tommy traddles.